The realisation of one's own death is the point at which one becomes adult.
It's unthinkable not to love - you'd have a severe nervous breakdown. Or you'd have to be Philip Larkin.
Prohibitions create the desire they were intended to cure.
A critic is a lug-worm in the liver of literature.
after all the work of the philosophers on his soul and the doctors on his body, what can we really say we know about a man? That he is, when all is said and done, just a passage for liquids and solids, a pipe of flesh.
I'm trying to die correctly, but it's very difficult, you know.